Five days ago, I sat in front of my television, pillow clutched to my chest, helpless as the Detroit Tigers finished off their destruction of the New York Yankees’ offense. Hitter after hitter succumbed to Tigers’ starter Jeremy Bonderman’s 94 mile-per-hour fastball and sharp-breaking slider. With each out, my body and mind grew that much more numb.
I couldn’t believe it. Was this really the same Yankees offense that just days earlier had been compared to the vaunted Murderer’s Row of 1927? By the time Robinson Cano had grounded out to end the game, the cold, dark feeling left me paralyzed. All I could ask myself is, “Why? Why now? Why this team?” The only silver lining came with the knowledge that the Yankees couldn’t possibly leave me feeling this way again until next year.
Boy, was I wrong.
That same numbness hit me again Wednesday afternoon when reports crossed the wire that Yankees’ right-hander and nine-year Major League veteran Cory Lidle had been at the controls of the small plane that slammed into the side of a 50-story apartment building in Manhattan. Once again, I could not believe what I was seeing. I had just watched Lidle throw against the Tigers in that same game less than a week ago. And now he was dead?
I flipped from channel to channel and between various sports Web sites hoping, desperately, that earlier reports were erroneous and that all was right in Yankeeland.
Of course, that report never came and I was forced to wrestle with the idea that maybe there is something more to life than the ups and downs of your favorite team. A quick glance at Lidle’s life proves that thought true beyond any shadow of doubt.
Lidle was a man who lived life his way. He succeeded in the big leagues despite staggering odds facing him. His first taste of life as a pro came in the aftermath of the players’ strike of 1994 when he crossed the picket lines and became a replacement player. Because of these anti-union actions, Lidle was viewed initially as someone who didn’t belong.
That didn’t matter to him. And even though the strike was settled before the 1995 regular season could begin, denying him a chance to begin his career, he plugged along in the minor leagues and eventually became a solid, middle-of-the-rotation starter for seven different clubs.
This devil-may-care attitude became apparent again when he was asked earlier this season to comment on Barry Bonds and the cloud of suspicion surrounding his on-field performance. Instead of giving a cliche-filled quote or giving no comment at all, Lidle spoke his mind.
“The reason I’m not scared to speak out is … basically, he had decisions to make, whether he wanted to treat people good or treat people bad. Whether he wanted to pump drugs into his body or stay clean. I believe he chose the former,” Lidle said in the Philadelphia Daily News in May.
It’s this kind of deviance from the norm that made him special.
Even in how he died, Lidle proved that though athletes spend nine months of the year playing ball, there are other, more important things to focus on. Instead of doing things typical of players who have just had their season abruptly ended, Lidle bore the brunt of the media’s questions for a good 10 minutes in the Yankee Stadium locker room. Most players would have made a statement and faded into the background until spring training. Not Lidle, who took a few days off and immediately went back to doing what he did best, living life to its fullest. And although his lifestyle may have contributed to his early demise, it showed that he grasped what most of his fans did not – that life is not all about sports, but rather about living life on your terms.
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